


Stirb Nicht (Vor Mir)

by mezzafredda



Category: Inglourious Basterds (2009)
Genre: Language Kink, M/M, Mind Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-27
Updated: 2012-06-27
Packaged: 2017-11-08 17:05:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/445488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mezzafredda/pseuds/mezzafredda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a special rung in hell reserved for the proud. And Archie is proud.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stirb Nicht (Vor Mir)

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in Russian and translated to English; many thanks to the lovely Keeraa for proofreading the translation. <3

What radiant blue eyes he has, this captive English officer. So wide and doleful, like a Hebrew's, except there is nothing Jewish about him. A perfect Aryan nose, a determined chin and well-defined, regular features. Not exactly the placard type, but more or less suitable for a support actor in one of those propaganda movies. The green-grey uniform fits him well, as if he has been wearing it proudly to parades and state receptions ever since 1939. Hellstrom knits his fine brows: what a shame - such a beautiful face on such a pathetic nuisance. They are in the basement, facing each other across the desk; the captive is sitting up straight on a chair in the middle of the room, and his jacket is hung on the back of another one in the corner.

"You have the right to remain silent," the Major informs him coldly, then adds in the same tedious voice: "I will see to it that you don't avail yourself of said right."

The Briton merely shakes his head in return, with a crooked, bitter grin on his thin lips. They are utterly pale, and so is his face, the well-aligned teeth gleaming in the dim artificial light. Hellstrom wonders if it is his disgraceful failure that makes him so haughtily sick and despondent. Yet still he doesn't seem genuinely unhappy - clearly he makes a deliberate effort to look as if he feels guilty. One need not be a keen psychologist: any competent operative would agree that the well-bred sorrow screams idleness and pride. 

"So, let us start." Dieter opens his briefcase and takes out a typewritten file. He frowns at the unreadable Gothic type and dips the pen into the inkpot, "Name, rank?"

"Mine, I assume?" the agent asks in a nonchalant high-society tone. The joke, though it might have worked if he had had a diamond tie pin to trifle with and a bejeweled bohemian escort to laugh at his every pun, leaves the Major unimpressed. He stares the wisecracker down grimly.

"Lieutenant Archie Hicox." He gives a sigh, lowering his gaze, the delicate eyelids outlined with the shadow of several sleepless nights. Oh, so he does not like answering pointless questions? Hellstrom isn't even writing anything down, enjoying the futility. 

Age? Twenty-seven. Birthplace? Manchester, but the family changed lodgings every now and again. Education? Eton College. A university, perhaps? Oh, I wish I had the wealth. Occupation? British Royal Army officer. Before the war? Film critic. Why, yes, more or less prominent. Languages spoken? English, German, French. Motive?

"I'm afraid that's private, _Herr Major_ ," the captive observes mildly, yet obstinately. Dieter presses his lips together and puts the file aside, obviously irritated.

"What did you say?" he asks with menace, pronouncing every word very accurately. His pupils are narrowed and the unwinking stare of a snake promises the Briton no good, and still he explains calmly:

"I do believe my reasons are none of your business, sir. I had enough of them, you can take my word for it. Let's just say I had a moment of vanity and decided to set the world on fire. Besides, I would like you, if it's not too inconvenient, to show some respect - due respect, I must say, - as we are both officers and gentlemen."

He does not sound impertinent, oh no: quite the contrary, his tone is overly corteous, and the general air is that of half-hearted dispassion. Hellstrom sits motionless for a few moments, then opens his cigarette case and lights up a fag. The Briton's mouth winces a little: he is about to lick his lips with envy, for it was several hours ago when he had his last smoke, but checks himself not to please the Gestapo man in his superiority. The Major gives him a smirk and exhales the smoke through his narrow nostrils before standing up and walking around the table.

"Now tell me, Archie," he takes a seat on the top of the desk, crossing his legs easily, so that the fabric of his breeches fits close to his bony knees, "Oh, may I call you Archie? Or shall I address you by your full name? Your name is Archibald, isn't it? That or Archer, but the latter is quite a rare name, the probability is considerably low, so my guess is Archibald. Am I right?"

Touché. Hicox gulps thickly, and the corners of his mouth twist again, and he is blinking fast, as he did in the basement of the tavern in Nadine. He's not going to cry (not yet, anyway), but he is appaled by the familiarity which he cannot return.

"Quite right, sir, but no one calls me that," he admits reluctantly, his accent a lot more audible now. Dieter laughs silently, taking the risk of choking on the smoke. That's what his real laugh is like - very quiet, almost like a gentle cough, so much different from the gleeful laughter he uses to embarrass ladies in public.

"Very well, then," his gaze darkens even before the merriment is completely gone. "So, tell me, Archie, my dear friend, what secrets do you have that are worth fighting with a Gestapo officer for?"

"Your agency is notorious indeed, Herr Major," the Briton replies discreetly, yet calmly, as if it were five o'clock in London and time to have tea, "but the question touches upon my personal considerations and doesn't really affect the aforementioned charge of espionage."

Flying gradually into a rage, Hellstrom clenches his teeth, pinning the captive down with a baleful stare. He's either an idiot, the Major thinks, or is jeering shamelessly at his captor. Idiots are never employed by intelligence services.

"Okay. You've had your say, and that's it." He leaps off the desk and makes for the captive. "Do you know what they call me on the British Isles?"

"Oh yes." Hicox looks up at him wearily. "They refer to you as ' _Hell Storm_.' Don't you just love the irony? What is a _clear river_ to you Germans, to us Brits is an _infernal_ \--"

"Shut up," Dieter commands abruptly and slaps him across the cheek. The Lieutenant gives an indignant twist, his look perplexed and hostile; of course, he can hardly see what has enraged the uncivilized Major. It takes a phonetician to realize how annoying, how obnoxious are certain peculiarities of pronunciation, but is it really so hard to understand why Hellstrom disapproves of the King's English with no German accent?

"You're so valiant, Archie." He shakes his head with disapproval. "You know who I am and still you won't stop sweet-talking me."

"People are scared of you, sir," Hicox confides frankly, although a bit coldly, still not having forgiven the occasional slap, "and I can see why. But we all know how fear makes molehills into mountains. I'm conscious of the fact that I'll be executed, but really, it's all my fault, not yours. You do have a tough job, but the time calls for it. You serve your country, like I serve mine..." He is silent long enough to take a deep sigh and then adds with a strained smile: "Only you're better."

Oh, so the man seems to think he knows anything about normal human conduct as it applies to Hellstrom. For some reason people don't see him as hopeless - be his age to blame, or his unusual face, a bit feminine --and not in the finest sense of the word,-- or something in his manner... It drives him mad when people pry into his feelings, trying to find virtue inside his heart and convert him to good. Why can't they just accept the fact that not everyone is born to be kind. Dieter's mind is wicked, his soul is sunk in vice and filth, and he's perfectly content with it. Being a brute _gets him off_ like nothing else. 

"I think I'm going to cry, Lieutenant," Hellstrom informs him, then spits aside and, rolling up his sleeve, puts out the cigarette against the metal band of his watch. "What an idealistic notion you have here! Now I think I should regret everything I have done, get on my knees and beg for absolution. Will the humanity in your person ever forgive me for my record of service? For my _flawless_ record of service!"

There are metallic notes in the Major's voice; the Briton watches him closely, moving silently his thin chapped lips.

"Do you remember the _Obersturmfuhrer_ who was killed in a skirmish in Nadine soon after I escorted you out?" Dieter chooses to break the news easy, just to be sure that his own emotions don't become too apparent. "Did he show you his scars?"

Hicox is silent for a moment, his eyes hazy with disturbance. In fact, Hellstrom is surprised to hear him actually answer, not counter with another question.

"He didn't quite show them to me, but I happened to catch a glimpse of his scars when he was changing. A distressing sight indeed. It crossed my mind that he was a soldier, not an officer, for I have never heard of an officer being whealed. What a terrible thing to happen!"

He shrugs his shoulders, looking up at the Gestapo man with the same bitter melancholy, but with no fear. Dieter feels the incinerating rage boil inside his chest. So, the fastidious Briton, unable to make the slightest gesture without showing his vainglory, has gone through five years of the war and still has no idea why one should be afraid of the Gestapo. The atrocities of the Nazis never really affected him, and he regards it as inconceivable that his sleek skin might be very well spoiled during the interrogation. Dieter Hellstrom, almost a colonel in his early thirties, has stepped over his feelings oh so many times, destroyed with his own hands everything that was dear to him, and now the handsome young lieutenant is telling him with such perfect confidence that it's simply that wartime calls for desperate measures?

"It was me who whealed him," the Major raps out, his clenched fists angular and pallid. "He was my bosom friend, my only love and delight, and then he betrayed us, and I tortured him for several hours, until he was losing consciousness after my every lash. I would have gone on with it, but they commanded that I stop. The Führer wanted him to be executed in Berlin. Do hold your British tongue, Archie Hicox, and for your own good don't ever say anything I may not like."

The Lieutenant remains silent for quite a long time, watching intently the morbidly white, twisted face.

"It must be difficult to associate with such a troubled personality as Hugo Stiglitz," he finally concludes, very gingerly, with a little frown, as if he were trying to give a novice actor an account of his criticism. Naturally, he pronounces it all wrong - two mistakes in the name that is never to be mentioned in Hellstrom's presence -- a hail of lashes ensues before Archie elaborates on his statement. The first strike causes him to double over, head to knees; the next makes his whole body flinch, the toes of his bare feet curling convulsively, his hands clutching at the legs of the chair. At first he doesn't scream and only starts to howl slightly when Dieter pulls up his nonmilitary cotton shirt and whips the naked skin. The sound is somewhat soothing; the Major spits again and then pulls Hicox's hair to look into his bright eyes, now three times less bored.

"I whealed him for several hours," he repeats meaningfully, "With a _whip_. None of you island rats could ever stand a chance against Hugo Stiglitz."

That is when Archie stops answering back, his convulsed features twitching with pain, and the look in his eyes is priceless - astonished, fearful and mortified. A cunning, psychopathic smile lights up the Gestapo man's face. He stretches out his hand and pats the Briton on the clean-shaven cheek.

"You know what, Archie," Hellstrom says tenderly, "You remind me of my counterpart. He is also of noble birth, really beautiful, and just as self-assured and afraid of pain. Perhaps, you can guess who he is?"

The Lieutenant shakes his head; Dieter can't help thinking that he will burst into tears if his lips open even a little bit. He pulls the captive's shirt over his head and wipes the twitching face quite unceremoniously.

"Keep it," he orders sullenly, handing him the crumpled shirt. "If you don't want it blood-soaked. _Kurzum_ , I'm talking about Colonel Hans Landa. We are not on particularly good terms, but it doesn't detract from his merit. Oh, by the way, he must be examining Bridget von Hammersmark at the moment."

At the mention of the actress's name, the Briton cocks up his head, and such deep terror permeates through his visage for a moment that Hellstrom feels a chill like that of a foxhound who has just spotted its prey. With this last touch to his character, he can see through Archie Hicox, his motivation and moral make-up.

"Oh, you needn't fidget now, Lieutenant," he drawls expressly lazily, " _That_ in itself was quite obvious. No one will blame you for wanting to stick it up Fraulein von Hammersmark's pretty little ass. Solely the ass, because other holes, you see, are for pleasing her patrons and wringing leading roles out of all of the casting directors, as clearly she cannot act for her life. Why, yes, I'd fall for her, too, were I attracted to sluts. Landa, of course, had her stripped naked -- didn't it occur to you, Dear Sir, that I could have done the same? -- and now she's on her knees, with her hands tied behind her back..." He lowers his voice and leans in, whispering in the captive's face, reveling in his helpless fury, "And she is pleading: oh, Hans, let me explain myself. Please. She desires to sleep with him, even at parting, because it's not her nature to keep her legs closed. And he is smoking his pipe and doing nothing more, because - surprise - he has no fancy for women. At last there's no one to fuck the pretty Bridget before she's sent to the gallows! "

He bursts into loud, infectous laughter, throwing back his head, inviting Hicox to join his mirth.

"I insist that you don't use that tone of voice when speaking about the lady," the Briton hisses, and the Gestapo man enjoys himself even more, and then switches over to unhurried rebuff.

"Speaking about the _traitoress and fraud_ , I will use whatever tone I choose, Archie, and your impudence will not in the least prevent me. You don't even realize your own prospects clearly enough. Of course, you will be sentenced to death - if there even is a trial. If there is someone to try."

The Lieutenant's face betrays no emotion upon hearing the news, but his eyes glisten with strained attention, one of the last steps toward dread.

"As you might have noticed, I attach particular attention to language, and your accent is abominable. I don't want to disgrace myself messing about with you in the courtroom."

"No-one ever told me I had an accent," the Briton whispers with tears in his eyes and promptly receives a sharp lash on his naked shoulders.

"It is thick enough for me to whip you to death." Hellstrom cuts short and walks away to the table for another cigarette. Archie sits still, his eyes shut, the delightfully beautiful fingers, palid, blue with tension and clutching at his own knee caps. Dieter takes off his full dress jacket and hangs it on the back of the chair. Then he rolls up his sleeves and shakes off the watch, a bit too loose for his gaunt wrist.

"Please, sir, tell me how to get rid of the accent."

The Major turns around swiftly. The captive's pleading look, his shining tearful eyes and perfect docility in the very posture of his lean body - he catches himself thinking that the sight is more than just pleasant to him. Not only satisfying, but sensually arousing.

"Do you want me to waste my time on you?" Hellstrom asks, concealing his impatience, approaching the Briton with feline steps.

"I humbly ask for your guidance," Hicox whispers meekly, and suddenly his courtesy appears sweet and heart-warming. Dieter runs his fingers through the silky hair.

"So be it", he says with a rapacious smile. "Now listen carefully, or else I will have to hurt you."

 

He's not exactly a quick learner: it costs him pain and anger, but only at first. Eventually the Briton becomes more attentive, when there isn't a clean spot to be seen on his back, and his enunciation is tolerable enough when blood trickles down his spine and under the waist-belt. Dieter talks to him about the German cinematograph, correcting the now rare mistakes with his lash; it's rather amusing to see him try to avoid the name of Bridget von Hammersmark. The Major is curious, and his curiosity grows as the Lieutenant's voice gets weaker and the acquired accent sounds more and more affecting. During the last few days Hellstrom has hardly had a night's sleep, too, but the deathly palor of the exhausted Briton and the flashes of lunacy in those amazing blue eyes of his hearten the Gestapo man somehow. He's on his knees, leaning against the chair, watching the captive closely so as not to miss the slightest tint of agony, be it the Lieutenant's or his own. By now he is not fully confident whose weary face it is, and whose finely moulded nose and cheekbones; it strikes him that in ten years' time Archie will be intolerably beautiful - oh, would be, that is. When their equally parched lips meet, it seems natural, inevitable, as well as the fact that Dieter's hands wander avidly over the damaged back, and Hicox' knees squeeze the other man's waist, and his fingers clasp his lean shoulders, pressing the shoulder straps into his collar bones. The vision is clear, and so is his mind, or else Hellstrom would have forgotten to lay the captive down face-first to cherish his new welts. The shirt sticks to the open wounds, to his own chest, but the Major sweeps the excess information aside, only barely noticing the viscid sensation. Archie bends underneath him, the concrete floor abrading his elbows, and mutters inaudibly; Dieter doesn't quite make out the words, but he can swear that there is not a single English word in what he is saying. He finds himself caring less than he should. When they are done, Hellstrom puts on the nonmilitary shirt and then the jacket; his own one, spoiled hopelessly, is rolled up safely, blood stains to the inside, and hidden in the briefcase. "It's morning already," he announces, "Good morning, Archie!" and fastens the watch on his bruised wrist. The Briton doesn't answer, thus proving that even courtesy can be overcome through violence.

The trial arouses widespread controversy; it seems that the whole of Europe is agitated. Archie Hicox enters a brilliant, well-prepared guilty plea, and his refined Viennese accent sounds so natural that Major Hellstrom cannot hold back an appeased flattered smile. Bridget von Hammersmark refuses to comment. She bites her lips, and it's not just lipstick that makes them blood-red and swollen. A death sentence is imposed on the both of them - she weeps bitterly on the Lieutenant's shoulder. The reporters squeak their pens rabidly, impatient to depict the most tragic love story since Anthony and Cleopatra. On the way out of the courtroom Colonel Landa catches up with his counterpart and drags him closer by the shoulder belt.

"I wonder why you did it, Dieter," he natters merrily, looking him straight in the eye.

"I may just love Austrian German," the Major retorts in the same flippant manner, smiling most amiably. They laugh together, their eyes cold and hateful.


End file.
